


Capernoited

by Ptolemia



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, drunk idiots beING IDIOTS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-21
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-18 23:08:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3587475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ptolemia/pseuds/Ptolemia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From a tumblr prompt - Solas/Lavellan, 'capernoited' (slightly intoxicated).</p><p>After Crestwood, Solas and Lavellan end up talking in the tavern.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Capernoited

She enters the tavern in the middle of a heated debate with Krem*, so it is a moment before she notices Solas's presence. He is perched next to Dorian at one of the low wooden tables, both men staring intently at a dusty old book.  
"... and then she'd be blinded by the light shining off his enormous bald head," says Oona, "and she'd- oh! Solas! We were just talking about you."  
He glances up at her and chuckles. "Good things, I hope, Lavehnan- I- mean," he stumbles over his words for a heartbeat, tips of his ears turning furiously pink, "Lavellan. La _vell_ an," he repeats, stressing the second syllable rather more than necessary.  
To her unending shame, Lavellan feels her own face reddening in response. "Are you drunk, Solas?"  
"Not at all," he replies, still looking a little flustered. "Dorian and I are merely having a civilised drink while we attempt to decode this book." He gestures airly at the tome before him; "What I can make out of it so far is... fascinating. The encryption, unfortunately, is-"  
"Pull up a seat," interjects Dorian, "let's make it an uncivilised drink, yes?"  
Oona smirks, reaching over the table to snatch his tankard. "It's not really drinking until somebody's dancing on the tables in their smallclothes, is it, Dorian?"  
"That was one- oh, you absolute beast, get your filthy little paws off my tankard!"  
She downs it. "Sorry, I thought we were being uncivilised?"  
Dorian sniffs, haughtily. "There are some things which are simply not done. You owe me a drink. Now, come along, you two, are you coming to sit with us, or not?"  
Krem shakes his head. "Another time, maybe. Said I'd play cards with the Chargers tonight, and I've got a moral obligation to show up and rob Dalish blind."  
Oona, for her part, side-eyes Solas as she shakes her head. It had been a week since he had... since... well, since Crestwood, and the two had for the most part managed to avoid each other in the interim. "Uh, no," she began, "I should... that is I am..."  
"Also morally obligated to rob Dalish blind!" says Krem, slapping her heartily on the back, "isn't that right?"  
"Oh, yes, exactly. Yep. That is exactly what I was about to say."  
Solas glances up from his book, raising an eyebrow at her.  
"What?"  
He sighs. "I have made you uncomfortable, forgive me. It was a slip of the tongue, but an unfortunate one, and for that I apologise."  
His overly formal tone makes her wince. The scrupulous politeness of the few words they have exchanged since Crestwood is disconcerting. And hurtful - perhaps even more so than simply being ignored. She avoids his gaze.  
"And now I have upset you again with my apology, I see."  
"It's fine, don't-"  
"I will have to make it up to you." There's a slight growl beneath those words which Oona feels certain she must have misinterpreted. "Come, sit down."  
She is taken by surprise as he grabs her hand and tugs her toward him, and she stumbles gracelessly forward, and ends up half in his lap.

They remain perfectly still for a moment, eyes wide, almost nose to nose and not moving an inch. He has one hand in hers and one on her waist. Her free hand is on his chest, and she can feel the flutter of his heart beneath his ribcage. It is probably just the drink, she tells herself. She is on the verge of making her apologies and standing to leave when Solas leans infinitesimally closer, and she becomes terribly preoccupied with his eyelashes. Distantly, she is aware of Krem and Dorian making their excuses and hurrying off.**  
"Perhaps you could help me," Solas purrs, and Oona has to stop herself from saying yes before he even finishes the sentence, "decode this text."  
At that, he abruptly lifts her from his lap and deposits her on the bench beside him, turning back to his book. "The cipher, as I was saying, is a complex one - I can make little headway with it, and your Tevinter friend was no use at all. Perhaps you could...?" He proffers the text toward her.  
She grunts. "I doubt it. You're the expert, aren't you?"  
"You might have an insight which I do not."  
"I'm Dalish, remember? The only insight I have is about, oh, I don't know. Halla dung. Aravel maintenance. Tattooing my face with shit I don't actually understand the meaning of."  
Solas flinches at that, and she almost feels bad. _Almost_. "I... see. Forgive me." He turns back to the book, avoiding eye contact once more.

Oona glares at the table, wishing that she at least had a drink to brood over. As if her prayers are being answered, her gaze alights on Dorian's hip-flask, left on the table near where he had sat. She glances around the tavern. No sign of him. Surely a little sip wouldn't hurt. Solas clears his throat as she reaches over to grab it. She ignores him. He clears it again. She ignores him.  
She takes a gulp from the hip-flask, which turns out to have been a terrible, terrible mistake. Whatever the hell Dorian has in there, it _burns_.  
"Andraste's knickers!" She mutters, eyes watering.  
Solas chuckles. "I thought you did not believe in Andraste."  
"I don't believe in the Maker. Andraste was a real person, though. Stands to reason she wore knickers. Anyway, what else am I gonna say? 'By the Dread Wolf's grannypants'?"  
"The Dread Wolf would not wear grannypants," says Solas, sounding unusually prim for a man discussing the underwear of a deity. Something in his tone makes Oona smile, and she hands the flask over to him.  
"Go on, you try it now."  
He tilts the flask up to his lips.  
"How about 'By the Dread Wolf's black lacy-"  
Solas makes a startled choking noise and flushes the most lovely shade of sunset pink.  
Oona laughs. "I know! Why would anyone drink that? It's probably done permanent damage to my stomach already." She eyes the flask with interest for a few seconds. "Here, pass it back, would you? I'm gonna try it again. Maybe it's better the second time."

They agree that it is no better the second time. Or the forth or the fifth. Or the sixth. Or the forth.  
"We're definitely on more than four," says Oona, one hand clasped tightly on Solas's shoulder.  
He leans into her touch. "No no no. Four. No more, no less."  
"At least twice that!"  
Solas straightens his back and wags a stern finger at a spot a hair's breadth left of Oona's head. "No."  
"Yes!"  
He glares haughtily at her. "In my travels in the fade, I have learned many many things, and,"  
"How many?"  
"What?"  
"How many things have you learnt in the fade?"  
"I, uh... ten."  
"Ten things?"  
He nods solemnly, trying (and not quite succeeding) not to grin. "At the very least. Anyway, as I was saying, in my travels, I have learnt many things-"  
"-ten things-”  
"- I have learnt ten things, and one of those things is that-"  
"What does this have to do with how many drinks we've had?"  
"I'm getting there. Patience. One of those things is that we have definitely only had four drinks."  
"Right."  
They look at one another, both attempting to keep their faces straight, and then Solas giggles - outright _giggles_. Oona can't help but laugh at that.

"Look at you, giggling away. You _are_ drunk, aren't you?"  
"Nonsense," says Solas, although the effect is slightly ruined by the fact that he has to try the word several times before he manages to say it right.  
"Yes you are."  
"I... might be a little tipsy."  
"A little?"  
"Capernoited, perhaps."  
"What does that even mean? Are you just making words up now?"  
"Not at all. It's from Tevene, originally, although... although... no, wait that's not..." He wobbles a little, and Oona grabs his arm to hold him upright.  
"Alright, that's enough from you. C'mon, I'm taking you home."  
She slings his arm over her shoulder and levers him upright, a task made more difficult by the way the floor appears to be... swaying. She blinks once, twice, finds her balance. Ok. To the door. That should be doable.  
Solas leans in, resting his head on her shoulder with a little sigh. He slides a hand around her waist as she stomps (relatively) steadily but very slowly toward the door. "Home?"  
"Your room."  
He sighs again. "We shouldn't..."  
Oona laughs, sharp and brittle. "I don't know how drunk you think I am, but believe me, I'm sober enough to know that would be a bad idea."  
"Then you must be less drunk than I. Or perhaps it matter less to you, perhaps I-"  
"Solas. Don't you play the injured party with me. Just... just shut up and let me take you home. Alright?"

She glances at him, and he has the gall to look hurt, to look hurt and small and lost.  
"Oona," he murmurs, "Vhenahn, I-"  
"Don't."  
"There are things I cannot... should not..." he babbles for a moment, lapsing into Elvhen. He speaks very fast, and with a strange accent she cannot quite place. Half of the words she misses, perhaps because he is slurring so many. "But," he says, eyes clearing a little, slipping back into the common tongue, "perhaps if I tell you now... but if I regret... No, but I would not, I- Oona-" and then he's back into Elvhen, fast paced and stumbling over his words. Oona listens in silence, head buzzing, but her Elvhen is poor to begin with and half the words she does not recognise. Perhaps he's making them up to sound smart. That would be... very Solas. She picks up a phrase or two, but no more. He says something about the veil (but when is Solas _not_ talking about the damn veil), and something about a war, and something about Fen'harel. Drunken rambling, as far as she can tell. She says nothing as she hauls him across the courtyard, and lets him blabber on.

As she pushes open the door to his chambers, she realises that he has stopped talking. He leans unsteadily against the wall, bleary-eyed but expectant. Nervous, even. As though he's waiting for a response.  
"What?" she grunts, "Go to sleep."  
"But... I..."  
"Go to sleep," she repeats, giving him a shove through the door and turning around to stumble back to her own rooms through the dark night.

He calls after her but she doesn't turn back. He's only talking nonsense by this point, anyway, and she has better things to do than listen to that.

 

*Part of an ongoing series of debates based on the setup 'Who would win in a fight; Andraste or ____'. Thus far the score was 12:2 in Andraste's favour, with her losing to Cassandra (Oona argued that Cass would get so upset about having to fight Andraste that Andraste would feel sorry for her and throw the fight) and to a roast nug (Krem was surprisingly convincing in his argument that Andraste would be so insulted that she would refuse to fight the nug, thus forfeiting the match).

**"I shall have to get myself another drink, then, since _somebody_ is a dreadful person and felt the need to take my last one from me..."  
"I, uh, well, you two have fun, I gotta go... uh... stand on that chair..."


End file.
